


for him.

by stephcass (bisexualrey)



Category: DCU
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9150751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualrey/pseuds/stephcass
Summary: "you don't have to say i love you to say i love you"jason todd is cold, lonely, and not sure how to stop running. after everything, he's not sure he can stop running. roy harper's just along for the ride.





	1. all alone

**Author's Note:**

> title based on "for him." by troye sivan aka the most jayroy song ever
> 
> also it's all lowercase bc "for him." is, and i have a lowkey hatred of capital letters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jason can’t see much in the alley beyond the saturated yellow of the nearest street light, and the heavy set figures belonging to the four men; he can’t see their eyes, or their expressions but he thinks it’s safe to assume they look pretty pissed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence, guns, vomiting (not descriptive but still there)
> 
> also this chapter is pretty much an epilogue

jason can’t see much in the alley beyond the saturated yellow of the nearest street light and the heavy set figures belonging to the four men. he can’t see their eyes or their expressions, but he thinks it’s safe to assume they look pretty pissed off. he wonders if he’s got the upper hand there considering he’s gotten really good at working in the dark, but if that’s true it’s the only thing he’s got going for him. which makes him torn between running (if it’s not too late) or sticking it out to get his ass handed to him by a bunch of douchebag frat boys from the other side of town. he’s riled up now and running seems cowardly, if not utterly humiliating, but he’s also not armed with a knife, and he can guess they can’t say the same. there’s that one thing he _could_ use, but he doesn’t dwell on that thought and instead backs a little farther into the wall.

the truth is, he started it. he’s the one who snarled at him first—threatened something unclever, maybe along the lines of, “you’ll shut the fuck up if you know what’s best for you,” which really, could be applied more to _him_ , but then again, the asshole wouldn’t leave this girl alone. she couldn’t have been much older than jason, with dimples and dark eyes, and she looked so damn scared. he knew what that was like. and yeah, maybe she could’ve taken care of herself, maybe not, but either way: she shouldn’t have _had_ to.

besides, jason didn’t realize the guy had buddies. which escalated to, “you wanna take this outside, kid?” and…well that’s pretty much the story. jason is dumb and too protective for his own good and maybe, just maybe, likes the fight.

looking at them now seems almost funny: a couple rich white dudes, jason decides to call them all chad, standing there with their shoulders squared and their light eyes so set on him. he knows they must be scared of him, but it’s in that twisted way, where the whole city is their’s—the cops, the laws, the fucking infrastructure—and yet jason’s the one who knows its streets. he’s the one who can breathe the gotham smog without coughing, doesn’t need to worry about pick pockets since he has no damn money, knows how to fall asleep in the filth of alleyways and wet pavement. their power makes him smart, teaches him to be resilient. not that he’s really feeling either of those things right now.

 _chad_ is growling something (jason’s ears are rushing so he doesn’t catch it), and when he lunges, he barely ducks out of the way. he doesn’t duck at the punch his friend throws, and it hits him pretty hard in the jaw, practically falling straight into the third guy’s fist. who takes a shot at his face (hits his nose) and slams him into the brick walls surrounding them. jason doesn’t know if he’s more pissed at them or at himself for being so shit at fighting back—he used to be good at this, before the hospital, and the whole running away thing, not to mention the lack of food or a bed to sleep in for the past couple months. yeah, jason’s been pretty screwed, and he’s just gonna be more so after this.

his head takes most of the impact; he hears a crack and knows they heard it too. his feet betray him first, then his arms. yep, screwed.

“think the poor bastard got the message?” one of them’s sneering. jason can’t tell who’s who because his eyesight's getting pretty blurry, and they’re all looming above him at this point. he also can’t think of anything witty to say, but since he’s probably concussed and all, he decides to cut himself some slack.

“took you,” he coughs out, still on his knees, “three guys to take down a 16 year old. congrats.” there he is being smart again, now violently pulled to his feet and pressed against the bricks harder this time—only there’s something rusting and heavy in chad’s hand, a silhouette that jason just barely recognizes. everything in his chest starts to rise.

“you wanna see what just one guy can do?”

jason feels the metal against his throat and panics. his nose and lips are bleeding and there’s a copper taste thick on his tongue, but he can take a couple hits. but the crowbar...it’s like he’s _there_ again. can feel those gloved hands, that feverishly warm breath; wicked laughter echoes off the slick pavement.

he doesn’t know when he first felt the coolness of the gun in his hand, doesn’t remember reaching behind to grab it, doesn’t thinks there’s even amo—but he reacts before he can know, remember, think. it’s loud and he can feel it in his jaw; he hasn’t used one of these since early training with bruce, but he had it and now he used it and he was wrong about the amo. it’s like an explosion only condensed, only a smaller radius and there’s blood, and shock, and laughter ceases to a ringing.

dazed, the first thing he hears is, “holy shit!” _screaming_ , the two men backing away. a body, heavy, crumples in his arms (suddenly he can’t remember if it fell that way or if he caught it), and he crumples with it. he’s more than a little disoriented from the now very probable concussion, so he just stares at it for a moment before stepping back. does he run? it doesn’t make sense to him as to why he wouldn’t, it all feels too routine and he can’t remember if he’s been here before. he’s pretty sure he hasn’t, but he definitely doesn’t want to risk it. doesn’t want to be here at all.

so he does run. for about a block, then sinks into another alley and sheds his leather jacket. on second thought—he puts it back on. it feels slick, drenched and heavier than usual, but he can’t leave it somewhere where it could be linked with the murder.

he reels over and vomits a couple feet from a dumpster, still concealed by the shadows of mostly abandoned buildings. that word: _murder_ . jason _murdered_ somebody. a breathing human being who’s…no longer breathing. chad or not, he had a family, a future. he had a whole life ahead of him—about a thousand times more of a life than jason has. he dry gags this time, there’s not a lot more to throw up, and stumbles a couple of feet before falling to his knees again. everything is dim and indistinct, like the vague silhouette of an alley cat on the latter of the fire escape, slowly blinking at him with sage eyes. selina once told him cats do that to show affection, so he tries to blink back but when he opens his eyes, it's gone.

with the sound of sirens, he pushes himself up. the condemned building he’s been crashing at is only a few blocks away, but too obvious, too trackable: it’s not going to cut it. plus he’s got to find a place to wash this blood off. it's been months, and nobody knows he’s even _alive_. and shit—he’s trying to keep it that way.

as he’s struggling to scale the fire escape to get out of view of any cop cars, the thought occurs that maybe he does know a place not too far from here: someone who'll understand being desperate, who he can trust not to contact the police or more importantly, bruce. it's last resort, he knows that, but his vision is a little too clouded to focus and he also knows he needs some form of medical attention.

he has to stick to back streets, which isn’t hard to navigate until it’s been about ten blocks and he’s closer than ever to passing out. there’s almost no one around, at least no one who’s not doing sketchy enough shit that they aren’t going to seriously notice him. just three more blocks.

by the time he’s at the steps of the building, after checking for any security cameras (not like a place as cheap as this has them), it hits him that he has no clue what to say. “hey i know i’ve been m.i.a. for the past 4 months but i just killed a guy and now i need a place to stay.” the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if just lying in the gutters and hoping the head injury kills him before the cold is a better option. but the truth is, he’s survived worse. a lot worse.

he reaches the door and rethinks that. then he knocks. the weakest sound in the goddamn world but it’s something. after a minute, he starts to worry he got the apartment wrong—generally he’s pretty good at remembering that stuff but he’s pretty messed up at the moment, and then.

“oh my god? jason?”

this was a mistake.


	2. unknown, unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he’s too numb to object, too numb to do anything but slide to the floor and lie his head against the cabinet. roy leans down too, resting a gentle hand on jason’s shoulder while keeping eye contact with the fridge. they sit in the quiet for a while, jason attempting to finish just a couple more bites of ramen while roy continues not to stare. its an art, their silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to write what everybody does in the notes and that's: sorry for being so slow to update! also starting fics are so hard but i promise this is going to turn fluffier and also maybe have a plot, we'll see.

“oh my god! jason?” roy doesn’t hesitate to pull him through the door, grab his shoulders and wrap him into a bear hug. he doesn’t seem to notice the blood soaking through jason’s shirt, covering his hands, or the bruises across his face. “i can’t believe you’re here! i- we all thought you were…”

“dead?”

“yeah! dude, it’s been months! you were in the hospital after that psycho-attack,” roy doesn’t notice jason flinch, continues rambling, “and then you weren’t and nobody knew what to think, i mean they say you’re more likely to be dead the longer- shit. sorry,” roy drops his hands to his sides but gestures for jason to step in further, shuts the door behind them. roy’s place is warmer than the gotham streets but still cold, although jason is always cold no matter where he is. he’s been like that since, yeah. since that.

“i-” roy’s eyes finally fall to jason’s shirt, his grin falling with it, “oh my god. is that...?”

jason nods and looks away, digging his fingernails into the thickest part of his arm. now it’s time to see if roy will really let him stay.

roy’s hands trail over his face, examining the damage, then he turns to lift jason’s shirt, “shouldn’t you go to the hospital?”

“no.” jason stiffens as he pushes roy off, softening only when he notices the genuine concern across roy’s face. “it’s not mine.”

“oh.” beat.

“roy,” time to start defending himself—explaining. time to start begging. “i fucked up. royally fucked up.” his expression is tight, and it would be hard to read if jason wasn’t so good at reading people.  at reading this person in particular .

roy’s tone has shifted, airy, “what happened?”

what did happen? jason’s not sure how to answer.

“i brought a gun to a knife fight,” he says weakly, grimacing at his own attempt at humor.

roy shakes his head in disbelief, “you…shot somebody?”

“i was surrounded.” jason pulls his t shirt over his head, undoes his belt, starts to strip to his boxers. he has to get the blood off.

“so it’s self defense,” roy offers, working around jason to examine the bruises forming on his torso. with his clothes gone, there’s significantly less blood. his hands are stained and his face is going to be even more scarred now, but the mass of it was the other guy. the guy that…isn’t really a guy anymore.

jason pauses, looks down, “not when i started the fight.”

“jesus, jason,” roy sucks in a sharp breath, starts to pace and desperately run his hands through his hair, “how did this happen?”

shrugging, he falls onto the cushions of his couch; he hasn’t sat somewhere so comfortable in months. hasn’t been in a real home since he ran away.

“alright,” roy seems to be getting it now, backs off. “i’m gonna grab some clothes for you to change into, yeah? you should hit the shower.”

jason nods, feeling a sudden and overwhelming urge for silence. everything hits at once—the blood’s gone but the memory of it…fuck.

“hey-” roy reaches towards him, pulls him up into another hug and brushes his hands through the wisps of white in jason's hair, “it’s gonna be okay, alright?” jason chokes out something into roy’s sweatshirt, his bare skin feeling warm against roy’s body. it’s the steadiest he’s felt since…well that doesn't matter now.

…

the water burns against his chest and back; he swallows bile in his throat, watching murky red run across the tiles and swirl into the drain. like it was never there in the first place. his eyes trail across his arms, thick and white marks tracing his veins, down his legs, knees, calves. how many times can a body hurt before it ceases to exist?

he’s in the shower for longer than necessary, which he tracks not through the measurement of time but rather through the swelling of his skin from the hot water. drying off, he examines the teenager in the mirror, younger than he remembers, older than he can understand. hollow cheekbones from a lack of food, hollow eyes from too much pain. too many things no one should see.

roy’s waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the wall and rubbing circles into his temples. when he sees jason, he jumps, chuckles, “you wayne kids and your incessant ability to sneak up on a guy.”

jason tries to smirk but it falls short. he shakes his head at roy’s offer of ramen, but roy pushes it at him sternly.

“you’re eating.”

he’s too numb to object, too numb to do anything but slide to the floor and lie his very-much-throbbing head against the cabinet. roy leans down too, resting a gentle hand on jason’s shoulder while keeping eye contact with the fridge. they sit in the quiet for a while, jason attempting to finish just a couple more bites of ramen while roy continues not to stare. its an art, their silence.

jason can't help but think of how messy things are about to get (as if they haven't already), and how he's pulling roy straight into the middle of it. his presence alone is a curse, in anybody's life, and roy of all people doesn't deserve that. but then again, it's too late now.

"you don't need to tell me everything," roy says, finally breaking the thread of tension strewn across the room, "but i gotta ask: bruce doesn't know you're here, right?"

"yeah," jason's voice cracks just subtly enough for roy to pretend not to notice, "he doesn't know i'm anywhere."

"oh."

"yeah."

yet another pause. figures, jason can't think of the proper etiquette for situations like this and he knows roy can't either.

"can i crash here tonight?" he finally asks, running chopsticks across the blue plastic of the bowl.

"of course, man."

they make eye contact for a couple seconds longer than necessary, jason too tired to resist the way roy's green eyes make him linger, some long-lost feeling. it's been months since they last saw each other and jason can't stop thinking about that night. roles reversed, how roy was the desperate one and jason had something to offer. it seems like centuries ago.

he eventually pushes himself up, setting a mostly-empty bowl in the sink and heading for the living room. roy goes to get sheets and a pillow out of a cabinet somewhere. they make the couch together: wordless.

jason dimly wonders if he should get some form of treatment for his head, then figures it doesn't matter. none of it. he eventually falls asleep to rain against glass; sore skin against a loosely-fitting flannel; the universe against him. (and roy. the universe seems to be against roy too).

 

**Author's Note:**

> ft. me constantly going back and re-editing/adding to the bad writing instead of actually writing new chapters
> 
> (i promise i'll get to it)


End file.
